


The Glass Is Broken but I See You in the Shards

by VelvetDove



Category: Vampire: The Masquerade – Bloodlines (Video Game)
Genre: Crying, Dissociative Identity Disorder, Gen, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Loss of Control, Mental Breakdown, Mental Disintegration, Mental Instability, Mild Blood, Minor Character Death, Multiple Personalities, Parent/Child Incest, Pre-Canon, Rape/Non-con Elements, Sexual Abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-26
Updated: 2020-08-26
Packaged: 2021-03-07 01:08:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,815
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26128552
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VelvetDove/pseuds/VelvetDove
Summary: The portrait needs to be redone. She’ll call, schedule to get it remade; Father in the middle, Therese to his right and Jeanette to his left, just as it should’ve been. Just as it always has been.
Relationships: Jeanette Voerman & Therese Voerman
Comments: 4
Kudos: 14





	The Glass Is Broken but I See You in the Shards

**Author's Note:**

> I feel really bad for Therese :(

Therese always stops by the park on her way home. It’s a nice park, which is to say, it isn't a children's park. A _quiet_ park, bereft of the headache inducing colors of a playground and, of course, the subsequent shrieking children. She thinks it's picture book perfect, with its old dirt path that winds between the sprawling oaks whose lively deep greens have since faded for the vibrant jumble of fall colors, birds perched up in the branches who refuse to cease song until they're right up against the edge of winter, and the cute weathered benches dotted along here and there for the many amblers who populate the lush niche.

She never wanders down the path, though. Not once has she stood right beneath the tall trees to look up at the birds, never perched on a bench to read a book in the company of a sweet breeze, but that wasn't abnormal - Therese never did much of anything, even if she wanted to. And she really _did_ want to take a walk down that path, to feel the swish and crunch of leaves beneath her feet. She can't, though. Because of the people there. 

It’s not as if she doesn’t _like_ people. Quite the opposite; they’re part of the reason why she stops at the edge of the path so frequently. She enjoys watching and admiring them; the elderly couples that hold hands on their strolls, young women and men out jogging in the fresh air, people her age who gather together and veer off the weathered path to explore between the copses.

She wants, more than anything, to join them, but Father doesn't like it when she meets new people. Father doesn't like it when she tries to make friends.

So she walks on, as she always does, full of envy, her face tucked behind a thick woolen scarf. The bag of groceries in her arms isn't too heavy, and the store wasn't too far away anyway - just a ten minute walk to the outskirts of the neighborhood, in addition to the amount of time she spent browsing around the store. She doesn’t mind. She would spend hours in the store if she could. The shopping trips Father occasionally sent her out to do was often the only occurrence that highlighted her week.

Especially since he never went with her.

The further she was from home - from Father - the more at ease she was. She could unfold from herself, straighten her shoulders a bit, hold her head high because for twenty or so odd minutes, she didn't need to make herself small. She didn't need to try so very hard to go _unnoticed._

Twenty minutes wasn't long, though, and in the grand scheme of things, the temporary safety of the outside world never matters.

Her hands always shake when she gets to the front door. She always fumbles with the key and drops it, picks it up with shaking fingers only to drop it again before she’s able to bring it to the knob, trying to still trembling hands so the key won't knock against the metal or wood and make noise, trying to smother her nervous clumsiness so she won't preemptively announce her presence, so she can turn the lock and push the door open slowly and _maybe_ he won't hear her when she comes in. If he didn't hear her, she could set the bag on the counter-top and tiptoe upstairs to her room, where she could pass a few hours in the peace stealth would have gotten her.

It was never so.

Father moves quietly, but Therese knows when he’s near. She always does. The skin of her nape pricks up and her arms break into goose-flesh and her heart hammers against its cage of bone. But she ignores every alarm her body could possibly give her to place the bag down, lace her hands together, turn around with her head held down, present the picture of a good girl, because fight or flight had long since given way to the option of freeze.

He emerges from the shadows, sallow flesh clinging to a gaunt frame. His eyes glint at her from sunken sockets, regarding her with a darkness no father should ever hold for a daughter.

"My Therese."

She swallows against a dry throat, raising her head to level her gaze with his throat - she can't look at his eyes, doesn't _want_ to look at them - and prays her fear won't catch her voice in her throat.

"Father." 

His hand falls against her shoulder, brushes over and rests against her neck and her heart becomes a rabbit caught in her chest, desperate to chew its leg off to escape the trap.

"You were gone a long time, Therese."

Her pulse slithers beneath her skin, a lifeblood slug. She was only gone twenty minutes.

Her hands shake.

Father places his other hand behind her head. "Did you speak with anyone, Therese?"

She swallows again, runs her tongue over dry lips. "I o-only said hello to the, ah, to the cashier, a-and thank you once he - once he bagged the groceries."

Father's hand slides down her throat, dry fingers rasping over fever-flushed skin. The silence is drawn out, uncomfortable, _calculated._ She forces her gaze up to meet his. He would think she was lying if she didn't. He always thought her a liar if she didn't hold his gaze when he assessed her. She feels his thumb press into the notch between her collarbone, at the base of her neck. 

Therese tucks her nails into her palms, fighting a shudder.

He brings his face towards hers to touch the tip of his nose to hers. His tobacco-laced breath wafts into her nostrils, presses against her closed mouth. He's always too close to her, pushing himself into her, but she hates this the most - the moments when she can't look away, or close her eyes and pretend she’s somewhere else, somebody else. She knew what he would do. The blame of her discomfort would be placed solely on her, and he would convict her of dishonesty she doesn't have. 

What a fool she would be, to even _think_ to lie to Father.

When she passes his verdict, he presses his mouth to the apples of her cheeks, humming in his throat, inhaling deeply. He always lingers on her skin too long, taking a lock of her hair between his fingers when he pulls away.

"Good." he sighs. "You're such a good girl, Therese." 

He shifts away from her, sauntering down the dark corridor. She watches his lanky shadow turn at the end of the hall, the doors to his study closing not long after.

Therese makes her way upstairs on shaking knees. She leaves the door to her room cracked open, perching stock-still at the edge of her bed. She flips through the pages of a book she’s too fearful to focus on, her senses honed in on every sound, both in and outside of her room.

Eventually, she hears the creak of the study doors, followed by Father's dogged and now-uncoordinated footsteps.

Drinking, she assumes, but the nights are always the same regardless of his sobriety.

His steps thump at the bottom of the stairs. She skulks to her door, closes it quietly, and flicks the lock.

It won't keep her safe for long. 

  
  
  
  
  
  


Sprawled out on the couch and slicked in cold sweat, Therese felt ill.

The strange disconnect and separation from time never stopped feeling alien, no matter how many times it happens to her. She doesn't like the blank slates in her mind where clear events and memories _should_ be. It frightens her.

More than Father, sometimes.

She turns her head. Her vision darkens at the edges, blurring. The sky’s laden with clouds that threaten rain with their corpse-pale gray, but the ashen light filtering through them makes the outside brighter than the deep gloom of her home. Father keeps most of the lights off. Father likes to keep the house dark.

It is difficult to remember the beginning of the strange, periodic disconnects, and their cause. When she got closer to Jeanette, from what little she could piece together and Jeannette - Jeannette stayed home, didn't she? While Therese accompanied Father to work for the day?

No. She covers her eyes with her forearm. Not right. Father would never… he wouldn't. He doesn't like having her near them. He hardly likes being near them himself, doesn't like leaving her alone - the work he did at the main office was scarce as it was.

Unless there hadn't been anyone else there besides him. Still, that doesn’t sit right with her.

She shifts and sits up. Her hair is damp, lank with sweat. It clings to the back of her neck.

"Jeanette?" She calls. It grates against her ears, hoarse. She clears her throat.

She pushes off of the couch and makes her way upstairs, trying her sister's name again. Jeanette liked to hide - impromptu rounds of hide-and-seek - and Therese isn't in the mood. She doesn't _feel_ good.

She pushes the door to their bedroom. "Jeanette?"

The bed is unmade, duvet thrown back, sheets knotted and crinkled from a fitful sleep. The pillows are askew and rumpled. Therese sneers and looks around the room, before poking her head out into the hallway.

"You _knew_ you were supposed to make the bed today!" 

She doesn't get an answer.

The silence in the house bears down on her unexpectedly. She doesn't hate it because she doesn't like being alone - she hates it because she’s not sure _if_ she’s alone.

She creeps over to the banister. Spiders skitter up her spine, and her mouth goes dry.

"Father?"

Her voice hangs in the air. Nothing.

If Father wasn't there, then Jeannette was… she was…?

Where had Jeanette even been the other day? Therese can't remember.

Therese shakes her head and grinds her palms against her eyes, attempting to press back tears whose source she can't quite pinpoint. What had Jeanette been doing? Was Jeannette even here now?

It doesn't matter. She'd come out, or come back, when she feels like it.

The sweat has dried but Therese's skin feels sticky. She decided to take a shower - she’s more comfortable doing so when Father isn't home. He couldn't intercept her if he wasn't there.

Beneath the stream of warm water, Therese's blonde hair turns dark, curling around her body as it hangs down her back like a heavy curtain. She thumbs at the bruises littering her skin, an ugly display of purples, greens, and blacks. Father always gripped her too hard, even when she cried out and told him to stop. They were always in the same places; her waist, her thighs, her backside. Father said he left them to remind her how much he loved her. She doesn't think she believes him. She hates them and hates him for leaving them there.

She never bothers looking in the mirror after her showers. She takes a towel from the rack, bundles it around her body and tucks it into itself to keep it from falling.

Rain patters against the windows, the view of the outside unfocused through the watery haze that streaks over the glass, the sky's gray light casting odd shadows that warp the images of the clowns on her wallpaper. Their grinning faces looked like images split from her nightmares.

Therese opened the top drawer, eyes trained on the clowns that seem to ogle her, intending to draw out one of her long and modest cotton night gowns. But her fingers brush over silk and lace. 

Not hers.

Therese wouldn't _dare_ purchase such degenerate fabrics.

She draws her gaze down and finds herself greeted by sumptuous knee socks and the rich purples and reds and blacks of panties and the room starts to spin and her skin pricks with heat from nervous sweat, _harlot's_ panties, in _her_ drawer, belongings of a seductive sinner, wicked girl, _wicked girl with wide legs and open moaning mouth you're a wicked girl, filthy slut, aren't you Therese you're wicked no wonder Daddy can't keep his hands off you no wonder Daddy loves to fuck you no wonder you never say_

"No, no, no no no no-" and Therese feels the burn of tears and the hot dewy streaks that will mar the pretty porcelain of her skin as she throws drawers and closet doors open, towel falling to the ground, breathing too fast and too hard as she chucks tightly cropped shirts and shorts and filthy little schoolgirl skirts to the floor with a spinning head and if Father finds out if Father finds these he'll get so mad he'll hurt her he's _coming and he's going to hurt her hurt her even worse than she's had it before -_

**_"JEANETTE!!!"_ **

Therese collapses to the ground, knees tucked against her chest, hands clutching at the sides of her head, yanking her hair, rocking, body wracked with dry sobs. The silence. The clothes. The silence and the clothes. Father. Father's punishments. She can't take it, can’t handle it, can't do it alone until -

 _"Oh, c'mon Therese! Always so dramatic. You act like we live in a nunnery,"_ and Therese chokes out a shaking sigh, not entirely sure if she’s _more_ or _less_ distressed at the sound of Jeanette's voice. _"Have you considered pursuing a career in the soap opera industry or whatever? Daytime drama? Seriously. I mean, I know it kinda_ seems _like we live in a nunnery - Father's all gung-ho about not showing skin and your body and shit but sweetheart, Father's insane. Father's not all there. Just a few fuckin' bingo balls short, if I may."_

Therese's breaths come in sucking bursts. "No! _No!_ You may not!" She's regained most of her composure, but she fails to stop the tears from falling. "You watch your filthy mouth! Do you know what Father will do if you talk like that? If he sees…" Therese eyed the clothing with disdainful fear, _"this?_ Do you have _any_ idea, Jeanette?"

 _"Oh! My darling duckling! My sweet little honey bee!"_ somehow Jeanette still manages to drip that syrupy sweetness all over her voice of parodied distress, infecting it with insouciance Therese isn't sure she herself will ever come to know.

Therese stands, pulling the towel around herself again, and walks to her vanity. Jeanette hums all the way.

 _"I didn't mean to, you know."_ Therese can see Jeanette and her full-mouthed pout in the mirror, and she'd chased _most_ of the mockery from her voice almost immediately upon seeing Therese's state. _"I just got to thinking, you know, a while back. You're always so sad, so lonely, always cooped up here - so I thought I'd surprise you! So before you went shopping the other day, I went out! Thought it'd be like a really really early birthday present, right? Bought you some clothes to match mine - fun! But not fun, I guess."_ Jeanette scratches the back of her head and gives a lopsided smile. _"Sorry."_

Therese rakes her nails against her upper arms. "It's- it's… you can't _do_ that. You can't go and do things like that. I thought you knew-" Therese cuts herself off, eyebrows drawing together. "How did you even get the money for all of this?"

Jeanette perks up.

_"Oh, I just stole from Father! Easy as pie, baby!"_

Therese’s hackles rise. "Do you mean to tell me-"

 _"Ease up! I only stole a little at a time."_ Jeanette clicks her tongue. _"Whaddya take me for? I hatched my plan when you told me 'bout the money he stashes in his study. Just sheared off a couple of bills every week, and you know how he's always piling lots in there. He won't notice."_ She bounced on the balls of her heels. _"I know the ins and the outs of this house. He'll never even know I was gone."_

Therese isn't so sure about any of that, but it’s _much_ better than the scenario she'd been imagining.

 _"Tell you what,"_ Jeanette says, after a pause. _"I'll clean all this stuff up - I'll even hide it! That's right! Won't even know it was here - neither will Father! You just kick back. I'll take care of everything."_

Therese manages to smile at Jeanette, who beams back. Therese hears Jeanette's footsteps as she tugs one of her modest nightgowns over her head and sits on the bed, face in her hands.

Therese begins to fade. She’s so tired. 

Jeanette, on the other hand, begins to clean and cache, adding to the collection of shrouded secrets.

  
  
  
  
  
  


She hurls herself out of the club into the frost-dusted alleyway, back against the wall as she sinks to the ground. The blaring music has all but split her head apart, and she can still feel the sweaty bodies and disgusting hands and slithering fingers pressing against her. She runs her own fingers over her body, tugging at the short skirt bunched around her thighs, stroking over the soft skin of her stomach and up against a sheer blouse, knotted beneath her breasts and there’s no - she’s not _wearing a bra,_ Therese has never gone a _day_ in her life without wearing one and her nipples poke against the slinky fabric, enticing, dark, naughty and there’s something in her shirt, crinkling between shirt and skin. Therese slips her fingers inside and pulls out a condom wrapper, _torn open_ and she’s aware of the jolt of pleasure when her thighs scrape against each other, the tenderness between her legs - a good kind, not the kind after Father has her - and her eyes blow wide open and they _water,_ fingers raking at her scalp, tugging the roots of her hair and she _lurches_ forward, scuttling on hands and knees and vomits against the opposite wall.

The snow melts beneath her thighs and soaks through her skirt. She tilts her head back to rest it against the wall, fighting tears, but the night sky blurs and distorts above her anyway.

 _“Can’t stay here forever,”_ Jeanette creeps out - from behind, her head _hurts,_ somewhere from behind - _“for the lucky ones, the passage of time heals all wounds - it only makes ours worse.”_

“I-I don’t-” Therese stammers, smudging her makeup when she swipes at her eyes. “I didn’t, _I didn’t leave,_ Jeanette, I don’t-”

_“At the end of the block - right on the corner - twenty-four hour gas station. You dropped your purse when you came out - don’t forget it.”_

Therese stumbles forward, wobbling on heels. She takes them off; the snow stings her feet, then numbs. Every few feet there’s a whooping holler, a cacophony of noise, applause or yelling from a bar and she sticks to the shadows, cold, cowering, but Jeanette presses at her, warm, confident, reassuring.

With Jeanette there, she makes it. The clerk doesn’t bother to look over when the door opens.

The bathroom mirror shows Jeanette’s splitting image and Therese grips the edge of the sink, snarling and -

 _“You weren’t even supposed to be here,”_ Jeanette says, almost rueful, and Therese snaps her teeth together, pulls her lips back, but Jeanette rolls her eyes and shakes her head. _“You followed me - now I have to get us back. Wash your face. It'll be worse if you don't get the makeup off.”_

The water’s too hot and the mascara burns her eyes but she knows she deserves it. She betrayed Father, followed in Jeanette’s footsteps and the paper towel is gritty, irritating and uncomfortable as it grates her skin and her softness becomes red with inflammation and blood, it’s not okay, she’s not okay, something wails and it might be her but it’s broken and empty and Jeanette runs her fingers through Therese’s hair before Therese hides in the stall with her fists pounding against the walls as she weeps and her mind winks itself away. Then she’s out in the cold by the payphone on a street she doesn’t recognize and her tears hit the ground in rhythm with the lazy snowflakes drifting from the night sky while Jeanette clinks a coin into the slot and taps her perfect nails against the numbers to make a call but Therese doesn’t want to go home; she wants to get away, away from the city, away from her life, away from Father, far far _far_ away from Father and the city lights quiver and fade because he’s above her, pinning her down to the mattress, blocking them out - the city lights, the lights, _her_ lights - with his hand around her throat, the other in her hair, he’s hurting her and it’s too much so she tells herself he loves her, lies to herself and says that he loves her, reminds herself that the best kind of love comes with tears and pain and guilt and loathing and he’s craning her neck back like he's going to snap it because he’s _so angry,_ so _disappointed_ with her because Therese is a good girl, she’s so good and he’s going to break her apart from the inside then the outside, her mouth cracks open and she’s shrieking and she feels Jeanette reach for her hand and Therese grasps it to interlock her fingers with Jeanette’s but then Jeanette’s the one shrieking and Therese is crying because _he’s hurting her sister, he’s hurting her now,_ she can’t let it, won’t let it happen and the room is spinning, closing in on her, too tight, not enough space to breathe, to get away from his hands and the grinning clowns who laugh and jeer are too close and 

  
  
  


painted in red, dripping red, a beautiful deep ruby red like strawberries just days away from bursting with malignant molding rot and Father’s skull is blown open, splattered all over the stupid wallpaper, jaw crooked in a silent scream and his image is so beautiful with its onslaught of river-rush relief, _I killed him, Jeanette killed him, he killed himself._ Her eyes water but her mouth smiles: his rifle is on the bed and Father’s finally dead because _he killed himself Jeanette killed him I killed him -_ her throat opens for a giggle as the neighbors shout, doors slam open, sirens wail.

The police drag Therese from her place in the bedroom, through the living room, past the grand portrait hung above the hearth, of Father and Therese, but Jeanette’s not there - Jeanette’s never been there. Father never loved Jeanette like he loved Therese and it pains her. So she makes a promise to herself and to Jeanette, as the police drive her away, as the nurses in the white room ask her questions in petal-soft tones, that she’ll get it redone. She’ll call, schedule to get it remade; Father in the middle, Therese to his right and Jeanette to his left, just as it should’ve been. Just as it always has been.


End file.
